


I Forgive You

by librarian_of_velaris



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Battle, Character Death, F/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 02:46:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15500604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarian_of_velaris/pseuds/librarian_of_velaris
Summary: Elide and Lorcan fight in the battle for Terrasen.





	I Forgive You

The lush, green lands of Terrasen were bathed in blood.

Led by Aedion, soldiers worked to hold the front lines, spraying black blood this way and that with every swipe of a sword. Valg and Ilken fell to the ground, heads rolling and bodies crumpling where they stood.

But still, it wasn’t enough. They were coming in hordes and not even the army Aelin had amassed could keep them from breaking through and continuing their ruthless attack, red blood mixing with black.

_These will not be only casualties today,_ Hellas whispered to Lorcan while he awaited orders to join the fight. Aedion had told him to wait—much to Lorcan’s protests. He should be out on the front lines, his power as much of an asset as the brute strength of soldiers—but the general had said no. That he would be needed later and shouldn’t waste his strength on a few Valg.

These were not a few Valg, though.

Where one fell, two rose, an Ilken amongst them. They destroyed everything in their path and Aedion had not yet called upon him or the Witches, who remained hidden in the skies, waiting to attack. He’d given Lorcan the same orders—had asked him to work with them, and Lorcan reluctantly agreed to the temporary partnership.

Aedion roared, signaling both Lorcan and the Witches to attack. The wyverns dove towards the ground, straight to the approaching creatures. Their teeth snapped, tails thrashing wildly as they met their mark, taking down Ilken and Valg quickly and efficiently. Whatever the wyverns missed, Lorcan had the pleasure of killing.

Lorcan was honed, born for battle and war. The crashes of steel-on-steel sang to him, giving him strength. He took down creature after creature with little more than a swipe of his sword, remaining untouched as he tore through the pack, killing and swinging and beheading. What his sword missed, his magic took care of almost instantly.

This war was a symphony, and he its deadly composer.

The witches dismounted their wyverns, slamming into the ground with weapons drawn. While the wyverns would continue to attack from above, the witches would fight from the ground for the rest of the battle.

Lorcan briefly turned towards the Thirteen, nodding to leader Manon Blackbeak. One of the Valg came up from behind him—preparing to strike as if noticing the brief distraction—but Lorcan was faster, his magic picking up on the threat. He raised his sword and brought it down on the creature, severing its head from its body.

The Blackbeak stared at him for a moment, lingering on him before barking orders to her Thirteen. He could’ve sworn he’d seen a flash of guilt, remorse, even, from the witch, but he quickly dismissed it and resumed fighting.

Until he saw long black, braided hair flipping wildly as the wielder rose her longsword and took down a Valg of her own. He saw the marred ankle, the unmistakable limp as she marched forward, looking for her next opponent.  _Elide_.

Memories of the past two days—of before the battle—slammed into Lorcan as he looked to Elide, unafraid and fighting with every ounce of her strength.  

***

She hadn’t spoken to him since that fated day on the beach, Aelin taken away, captured and tortured for months—because of him. Because of his misguided attempt to protect the woman he loved. Still loved, despite everything.

And he would do it again if it meant keeping Elide safe. Even if she hated him for the rest of her life for his betrayal, Lorcan would live with it. Hell, he  _was_ living with it. He refused to regret it, because Elide was still alive. She was not another casualty of this rutting war, and he would keep it that way. Lorcan would not let her die.

So when he saw her step off of Abraxos, Lorcan’s rage was palpable. Not towards Elide, but at the golden-eyed witch by her side.  _Manon._ She brought Elide to a battleground with nothing more than a bit of training under her belt. She couldn’t fight like a soldier. Didn’t know how. Elide was a smart girl and could manage on her own, but these Valg were dangerous and absolutely lethal for someone without proper training. And Lorcan didn’t sacrifice the only thing he loved in the world for her to die at the hands of cruelty and war. She deserved a long, fruitful life in Perranth. In her  _home._

Elide didn’t acknowledge his presence, instead turning to her leader and asking to be excused. Manon nodded, dismissing her, and Lorcan sent out a tendril of his power to her ankle, bracing it as she took a step towards a nearby tent.

She stopped, scowling down at her ankle then looking back to Lorcan, her expression icy. “I prefer the limp,” she said.

Lorcan’s magic recoiled at her words, shrinking and sinking back into its wielder. The hold on her ankle disappeared, her limp again evident as she entered the tent.

Lorcan had never felt so defeated. So small. He’d faced trained soldiers on the battlefield, had fought Ilken and Valg and come out alive; hell, he’d even been beaten half-to-death by Maeve, and he’d survived and taken it with a grain of salt. Those things he could recover from.

But he didn’t know if he could survive this. The way Elide spoke to him just now…the coldness of her gaze and the bite in her words, to her, Lorcan was nothing more than a traitor who sent her queen to die.

The sadness, the utter sense of regret and guilt he felt when he looked at her threatened to shatter his soul. This wasn’t some wound that would heal with time. He had betrayed her. Hurt her. No time could heal him or make her forgive him.  

He would have to live with this guilt for the rest of his life. Lorcan thought he would be okay with it. He’d even accepted it. But seeing her for the first time since that day, the hatred in her eyes, the anger, the betrayal…even convincing himself that he’d done the right thing was a near-impossible task.  

With Elide gone, Lorcan was left with Manon and Aedion to discuss battle strategy. Rage threatened to overtake him now that he was alone with the Witch-Leader and General, but he swallowed it down as much as possible, mustering a neutral expression, though rage still lingered in his dark eyes.

Aedion went over their instructions. Lorcan was to aid the Thirteen against the enemy, taking out the creatures on the ground that the Wyverns and Witches missed. Aedion pressed, though, that they weren’t to move until his call. Not too soon, he said. They needed to ensure they were at full strength, strong enough to fight after the first line defense was broken, which, unfortunately, Aedion expected to happen.

Lorcan nodded at Aedion’s commands, agreeing without much of a second thought. He wasn’t thrilled about working with the Witches, but if Elide were to be among them—which, if he had any say, she wouldn’t—he could at the very least protect and keep her safe.

Elide hated him, but Lorcan still loved her. If he could give her some sort of protection…it was worth it even if it were a risk. It would be a noble death—dying protecting Elide—and he wasn’t afraid of the possibility.

But preferably, Elide wouldn’t be on that battlefield.

Aedion left after their meeting to tell the rest of the army his plans. Manon nodded and started off towards her own tent but Lorcan caught her wrist, stopping her.

“Let go of me,” the Witch said, turning to Lorcan.

Lorcan met her gaze. “You can’t let her fight with you tomorrow.”

“She is a Blackbeak. If she chooses to fight, she will fight.”

“She should be somewhere safe—”

“You are not her keeper, and she does not belong to you. Elide will make her own decision. If she would like to fight, I cannot stop her.”

“She is untrained! She will die!” Lorcan pleaded. He would get on his rutting knees if it meant keeping Elide safe.

“I would not allow that to happen.”

“So don’t let her—”

“I will  _suggest_ that she stay back tomorrow. Ultimately, though, it is her own choice,” said Manon, leaving Lorcan and walking to Elide’s tent.

That night, Lorcan prayed to every God he’d heard of. He prayed for Elide’s safety and offered every piece of his soul in exchange for her protection.

***

The distraction—however short—cost him. While deep in the recesses of his memories one of the Ilken sprang up, its claws itching to attack.

_“I will take everything you love away, and then I will enjoy ripping the flesh from your bones,”_ it spat before launching itself at Lorcan.

The grating, vile voice of the Ilken grounded him back in reality. The battle, the Valg, the Ilken,  _Elide_ …Lorcan remembered where he was, what he was doing, and swore at himself for losing focus. He was a soldier. It was about damn time he acted like one.

Lorcan dodged the Ilken’s first move, sidestepping to the right to avoid the creature. It slammed into the ground and quickly stood, readying to attack Lorcan from behind. Lorcan turned, his sword ready to come down on it. But the Ilken was faster and its claws dug into Lorcan’s flesh and pushed, creating a long gash down Lorcan’s side where his armor didn’t protect him.

Blood leaked from the wound, staining his shirt, but still, he kept fighting. The Ilken wasn’t giving up. Every swing of Lorcan’s sword was dodged, every attack with his magic weaker and weaker as his magic left him, leaving him close to a burnout.

_“I am born of the Valg,”_ the Ilken hissed before throwing itself at Lorcan once again,  _“you are no match for me.”_

He was prepared this time. He dodged, pivoting to the Ilken and readying to strike—to sever its head from its body—but the creature wasn’t behind him.

Lorcan spun, looking for the creature, seeing nothing in his vicinity aside from carnage. But then,  _there_ —out of the corner of his eye, he saw its shadow move towards the trees. Towards the witches. To where a raven-haired girl, clad in armor, was fighting off a Valg, unaware of the danger lurking towards her.

_Elide._

Panic surged through him, fueling him while he sprinted across the battlefield, to where the Ilken was crawling toward an oblivious Elide.

She took down the Valg in front of her after a brief fight, severing head from body with a simple arc of her sword. She started to move forward to aid the rest of the witches fighting ahead of her. But something stopped her, freezing her in place. The Ilken. Now behind Elide with its claws mere centimeters from her neck, it shot Lorcan a look as if to say  _don’t come any closer._ Immediately, he stopped moving, fear paralyzing him. He tried sending a tendril of power out to where Elide stood with the Ilken behind her, but his magic was burnt out. He was useless. Utterly useless.

It whispered something to Elide, causing her to turn around, looking directly at the Ilken—and then to Lorcan, who stared at the scene unfolding. She took a few steps back, but not in fear. In preparation.  _Run,_ he wanted to say,  _I’ll take care of it. Just run. Get to safety._ But no words came out as he stood there, frozen, watching the woman he loved draw her sword and ready herself to strike. Lorcan’s eyes widened in horror.  _She’s going to fight the Ilken._

As if reading his mind, Elide nodded, taking one last glance at Lorcan before swinging her blade down on the Ilken, severing its arm from its body.

Black blood coated Elide, spraying everywhere. The Ilken made an inhuman screech and then launched itself at her, throwing her to the ground with the sheer force. It landed on top of Elide, using its teeth to bite at her neck but she was a smart girl, twisting and squirming under the creature to throw it off balance, and then screamed, throwing herself up and out of the Ilken’s grasp.

_Holy Gods, she might actually kill the thing._

Elide readied herself for another attack. She dodged the Ilken’s next attack and it slammed into the ground behind her.

They clashed again and Elide threw her entire body into the next swing of her sword, but the Ilken scrambled out of the way, just barely, the sword landing inches away from its chest.

Elide, tired and sweating from the fight, refused to give up and went to pull the sword out of the ground. But it wasn’t coming up fast enough. She pulled harder, but it wasn’t moving.

Lorcan sprinted towards her. With his strength he could help her, get that sword out and ready so she could—

_“ELIDE!”_

Lorcan’s warning did nothing. The Ilken crawled up behind Elide, grabbing her by the throat with its remaining claw. She tried to worm herself out of its grip but it held tighter, nearly choking her. She didn’t dare move after that.

Lorcan fell to his knees, silver tears blurring his vision. “Elide, Elide, I—”

_“Do not speak, or she dies.”_

Lorcan did as the Ilken commanded.

_“You will lose this war. And when you do, I will be the one to kill you. I will rip you limb from limb and rip your flesh from your bones until you beg for death. And then I will take pleasure in killing you.”_

And then the Ilken let go of Elide and she fell to the ground, clutching her neck. It stared at her tear stained cheeks and the black blood that had dried on her armor. Faster than Lorcan could move—could yell for Elide to move, to get out of the way—it took Elide’s sword from its place in the ground and impaled her with her own weapon before crawling away into the shadows.

Lorcan roared and sprinted to Elide.

He dropped to the ground, inspecting the wound, her blood pooling in his palms. He could use his magic to save her, he’d use every drop he had left if it meant—

“Lorcan…”

Elide’s voice was barely audible as she cried out to him, her hand moving closer to his. He took it, squeezing gently. “I can heal you, it’s going to be okay, Elide, you’ll be okay, I can heal you…”

He prayed to Hellas. To any God who would listen.  _Help me heal her, help me keep her alive._ Lorcan pushed on the remaining embers of his magic, determined. She was going to be okay and alive and even if she never spoke to him again she would be  _alive_ —

“I forgive you,” Elide breathed, looking up at him one more time before closing her eyes.

Lorcan’s magic gave out.

The world went silent.

Elide was dead.

***

Elide had been dead for ten years.

Every year, Lorcan visited her grave in Perranth. Each time, he left three stones and told her of the past year. He spent hours speaking to her headstone, telling her about her friends and her court and her people.

That first visit he told her about the war—about how Aelin had managed to forge the lock without dying, her drop of water magic keeping her alive through the end—and how the kingdom of Terrasen was alive again, thriving, under Aelin and Rowan’s rule. He told her of his position in the court as Rowan’s hand, aiding him whenever necessary. And then he would tell her about the witches. Manon had split the Wastes with Ansel with no bloodshed, and they ruled their kingdoms separately. Manon had broken the curse placed upon them so long ago by claiming her heritage as a Crochan queen, and the wastes began to thrive after the war.

Then he spoke about Elide. That…that was the hardest part for Lorcan. He missed her every second of every day. Some days it was a dull ache, and sometimes the force of losing her hit him so hard that he could barely get out of bed. Those days, Rowan and Gavriel came into his room and let him talk. Of Elide, of the war, of the past…and they listened, not leaving until Lorcan’s voice was strained and no words could come out.

That pain would never go away, he told her. He would never forget the woman who taught him to love, who forgave him in her final moments despite what happened on that beach.

This year, on the tenth anniversary of her death, he brought the stones, but he also brought small white roses, which he planted on both sides of her grave. Every year they would grow, blooming on the day of the battle. The day she lost her life.

Instead of telling her about the past year, he told Elide a different kind of story. His story. It began with a Demi-Fae bastard, who sold his soul to a bloodthirsty queen. He spoke of the magnificent woman who changed his life, who made him  _want_  to love—who taught him  _how_  to love. And when he was done, and tears spilled down his cheeks and onto the grass beneath him, he whispered one final sentence—reserved only for her.

“I made it to Perranth, Elide.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I'm sorry for that bit of sadness, but it's been in my head for a while and I needed to get it down on paper. Fingers crossed they both make it through KoA! 
> 
> If you like my writing, I'd love to hear comments. If there's something you want to see me write too, just let me know or give me a prompt!
> 
> xoxo, 
> 
> Zoe


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